And when the dishes were done and I started to nod off, he didn’t say a word.
He just scooped me up again, carried me to bed, and curled up around me like I was the most precious thing he’d ever held. I slept better than I had in ages.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of cinnamon and sugar and coffee.
Beau was already in the kitchen, standing at the stove in flannel pajama pants and no shirt, flipping pancakes.
The muscles in his back flexed with every movement, and honestly, it was a miracle I didn’t pass out on sight.
“You trying to kill me first thing in the morning?” I asked, voice rough with sleep.
He turned with a grin. “Just thought I’d make your favorite. Didn’t mean to be a menace.”
I padded over, stealing one of the finished pancakes off the plate. “You are a menace. A delicious one.”
He leaned down, brushing a kiss against my temple. “I like you here.”
“Me too,” I told him.
We fell into a routine quicker than I thought we would.
Mornings were slow and cozy. We had pancakes or eggs, shared coffee, sometimes Beau’s giant arms wrapped around me while we stood at the counter half-awake.
I still had a few days of recovery left, so I wasn’t back at the bakery full-time yet, but Beau brought me Bear and Bun pastries every afternoon, warmed just the way I liked them.
We rearranged the kitchen to make space for my baking tools, and Beau didn’t even blink when I showed him how much gear I had. He even gave me the bigger drawer.
“I want you to feel like this is your home too,” he said when I hesitated.
“It already does,” I replied, meaning every word.
We argued about fridge organization (he was a top-shelf chaos monster, I was a structured system kind of guy), but that was about it.
Evenings were our favorite. We cooked dinner together. Well, I cooked, he hovered. Then we curled up on the couch, sometimes watching movies, sometimes just talking.
Sometimes just being. The nightmares still came sometimes.
I’d jolt awake, heart racing, breath caught in my throat. But Beau was always there. Always pulling me close, grounding me with soft murmurs and warm hands.
“I’ve got you,” he’d say. “You’re safe.”
And I believed him. One night, a few days after I’d moved in, we were sitting on the ledge by the windows, with mugs of tea, watching the stars come out.
The air smelled like pine and late-summer breeze. Crickets chirped. Everything was quiet.
I glanced over at him. “You know… I used to think I’d never get this.”
“This?” Beau asked.
“This.” I gestured vaguely, my hand fluttering between us before resting against his chest. “A home. A mate.”
Beau looked at me for a long moment. Like he was memorizing every inch of my face, every shadow and freckle, every little flicker of emotion I couldn’t hide.
He reached over slowly, giving me the chance to pull away if I needed to. But of course I didn’t. I leaned into his touch like it was instinct.
His big, calloused hand cradled mine gently, thumb brushing slow, soothing circles over my knuckles.
Then, without a word, he lifted it to his mouth and pressed the softest kiss to my skin. Another followed. Then another.
